He sliced his finger on his bayonet
Almost fumbling the fix
And his blood and the gun oil
Slowly started to mix
As he stood back at attention
Looking straight ahead
And in the morning sun his blade
Glowed a faint shade of red
He carried on regardless
Until the final command shout
And he and the squad
All fell smartly out
They dressed his bleeding finger
In the barrack room’s shade
All relieved that his fumble hadn’t
Spoiled their passing out parade
